Page 113 of War

I’m just lowering my bow when I feel the tip of the sword at my back.

“The only reason you are not dead, girl,” says the voice behind me, “is because I want our warlord to know your crimes.”

Well, shit.

Chapter 32

Back at camp, under the rays of the setting sun, the soldiers line the traitors up.

I’m one of them.

The new captives have already sworn their allegiance—or they’re dead. Now it’s our turn for judgment.

I’m shoved forward, towards the clearing, my hands bound. People are yelling at me, putting their hands on me; their hate is a palpable thing. They do this to every traitor, and yet I’m singled out amongst the crowd, undoubtedly because by now everyone knows of my relationship with War.

The horseman sits in his throne at the head of the clearing. I’d almost forgotten about that throne. He’s a different person up there, different from how he is on the battlefield—bloodthirsty and calculating—and different from how he usually is with me—gentle and kind. Sitting on that throne, still clad in his bloody regalia, he’s haughty and aloof. Although, today, I’ll admit he does look more agitated than usual.

As I walk into the clearing, I keep my chin held high, despite the fact that the ground is soaked in fresh blood and the bodies of the newly dead prisoners are lying in a pile off to the side.

The crowd is screaming and spitting and raging, raging, raging. More than one person is literally throwing horse manure at us.

Dear God, is this really what you intended? To make men into demons and let hell reign on earth?

The line of us are forced to face War.

He looks the lot of us over, his bored gaze moving from traitor to traitor until his eyes land on me. For an instant, there’s a spark of relief. Then his face hardens.

I’m not positive, but I get the impression that none of his riders told him my whereabouts. I guess they wanted to take a more dramatic, more public approach to the entire thing.

War stands, and the crowd goes quiet. I don’t know what he’s thinking, what’s going on behind those turbulent eyes of his. It’s probably regret that for a second time today, I’m undermining all his carefully laid plans.

“Miriam.” His voice ripples across the camp, and no one is immune to it.

People pause in their dung-throwing so they can stare at the horseman, then me.

His gaze drops to my throat, then my bound hands. When he looks at me again, there’s an edge to his eyes.

“Release her.” He doesn’t attempt to speak in tongues.

“My Lord,” one of the phobos riders objects, stepping away from the other riders. “She killed one of your riders.”

I don’t recognize the man speaking, but I do know he isn’t the soldier who captured me today. That ended up being Uzair, the same phobos rider who also caught me loitering outside War’s tent when the horseman was discussing battle strategies with his men. Right now, Uzair stands with the other riders, his jaw hard.

“Why are you keeping her around?” demands this new phobos rider, stepping into the clearing.

War looks bored as he stares down at his man.

Several soldiers are approaching me, presumably on War’s order to release me, but their expressions are hard. It’s clear they believe I should die today.

They come up to my side and take me by my upper arms, leading me away from the lineup.

“She kills our men, sabotages your plans, and yet you spare her?Her?” the phobos rider says, incensed. “Never have you made exceptions before. Why now, and for what? A whore?”

War’s eyes narrow.

“Kikle vležoš di je rizvoroš maeto vlegeve ika no ja rizberiš Vlegi?” the horseman says, now reverting to one of his dead languages.

How could you understand my motives if you don’t understand God?